‘Emerald Road’ Delivers a Story that is Shallow but Likable

Hello again, queer reader, you’re in my world now. Today we’re reviewing Emerald Road by author and immigration lawyer Orlando Ortega-Medina. Below, I have laid out my thoughts on the matter, but up front I will say this: I am not likely to speak against any work of art which centers drugs, immigration, and gay sex. I am personally invested in two out of three of those things and regard them as pillars of my community. Like any queer story, though this one has problems, I still feel significantly more at home within it than in, like, the grocery store. I will never undervalue queer literature, but I feel it is my duty, as a book slut, to attack sloppy writing. This being said:

Issac Perez is a 16-year-old boy living in San Salvador, El Salvador on the eve of the violent Salvadoran Civil War. His brother, Neto, is a hard loving but caring brother, as they are about to get into a fight, an earthquake strikes, and Issac escapes into the city. That day he meets Geronimo, a church boy who triggers his sexual awakening, and Abbhu, a stray and dying pup, setting off his coming of age.

Perhaps this short description shows one of the problems with Emerald Road. Issac, Abbhu, Geronimo, Neto, Arturo, San Salvador, the Meteropolitan Cathedral, El Boquerón, in trying to describe the first 30 or 40 pages of the book, much less the first part, it’s hard to know what to focus on. It’s not so much that the characters are hard to keep track of as it is that none of them seem to be the spotlight. Issac and Abbhu would be the obvious choice, and are the emotional core of the book, but his thoughts don’t leave much room for interesting introspection. And Abbhu, who is the wise sidekick character, comes across one-sided. The scenes are constantly moving and changing while the plot inches forward.

The book is filled with a bit of everything: an unrequited romance, lots of gay sex, shamanism, a super wise dog, drugs, revolution, and  brotherly conflicts, and it never really comes together. The writing style itself left me wanting, but most importantly, I just wanted to know what the point was. And that jumbled mess, while it had a lot of heart, was a frustrating read.

The book also struggles to find emotional or thematic depth. The writing is frustrating at times, holding our hand through scenes rather than trusting scene making. One of the big emotional resolutions in the final act never really lands; it sums up the bloodshed, terror, mysticism, and danger Issac has spent his adolescent years in saying, essentially, “just be kind to everyone.” Again, it has heart, but lacks introspective depth.

Sometimes the plotting is contradictory, like how Issac is told to not take responsibility for other deaths as he literally accidentally poisons his dog. Or how, near the end, the sex and sauna scenes rub awkwardly with the fact that Issac’s life is in absolute shambles.

Then again, maybe the merit of the book doesn’t lie in craft, but in cataloguing. The idea of “plot” is only important in a narrative sense, and the chaos of the plot resembles the chaos of 1980s Central America. Issac can feel a little happy-go-lucky at times, although he has plenty of dissidence, but is ultimately lovable. And despite feeling a little shallow, the setting really shines during the road tripping in the later portion of the book. It’s a world that continues to feel welcoming.

Overall, as a book, Medina’s story is a little rough. However, it weaves together a lot of contradictions (or seeming contradictions) such as family struggles, the political turmoil of 80’s El Salvador, coming-of-age as a gay man, and sex and drugs. The book is a little too shallow to be satisfying, and I can’t necessarily tell you, queer reader, to pick it up. But I will say that Issac makes a like-able companion on the journey, and his journey through 1980’s Central America feels important in our political moment. Issac and Abbhu make good friends to the reader, though not ones that we can confide in.